Maria I want your bitter mouth
Maria I want your ******* of dank loam
your ******* of sullen ripeness
your ******* of childbirth

Maria I want the narcotic orchid of your tongue
I want your eyes of treason
your eyes of attack
your eyes of the moment of death

Maria I want to be washed up shipwrecked on your shore
I want to be buried in your breath
I want the venom of your passion to sear my veins

Maria I want to be a universe unborn kicking in your womb



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Copyr­­­­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Lord, set me a table in Byzantium:
not the rose-colored queen of the Bosphorus,
not the city of jeweled liturgies,
but the drain where the scourings of empire collect.

Give me a rough wooden bench
and a goblet of thick southern wine
that smacks of honey and dust
in a tavern on some twisted lane away from the sea,

where a plump dancing girl of uncertain antecedents
clicks the reptilian scales of her castanets,
her gaze weighing my limbs like dubious florins,
while a one-eyed Cappadocian in the corner
thoughtfully fingers his knife.

Lord, I don’t ask for much,
only a fate I can handle.


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Copyr­­­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Dear Amanda,

    I hope this letter finds your well.
I must tell you shovel, sparkplug, grass, rice.
The meteor you sent me crumbled
because I forgot to pay my dream tax.
Amanda, Amanda, your flesh is soaked with bread.
I saw you standing barefoot with your babies in a hamper,
and I thought of you so hard I cut my hand
on a piece of candy.  Please ask Father if he’s seen my voice.
The world gets flatter:  it’s sticky in between.
Your hips are violet cycles.  They make me ashamed of the clock.
Your eyes make whatever they look at count.
You just put me on the pins of wonder.
Amanda, everything is soiled except your heart.
I’m flying as hard as I can, but the air gives out.
The wistful starlings have forgotten but are not forgotten.
Please ask Mother to make me a choice.
Give little sister as many kisses as there are daisies,
and tell little brother not to hurt himself on the dandelions.
I must tell you cloud, stoplight, window, flute.
I must tell you asphalt, armature, prairie, sky.
Amanda, I’ve got to lean on this to say it but
the words don’t matter, they can only mean.
The best revenge is not to care.  Reach.  Reach.  Reach.


                             Eventually,

                                          Me

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Copyr­­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

The difference between a finger and a thumb
is Shakespeare.  Anyone can dream
of a candle, but you’d better dodge your shadow,
because death, that great et cetera,
is the opposite of surreal.  If there were no thunder
there would be no mountains, so something like a snowflake
cannot be conferred:  it must be earned.
You will tell me that anyone can say this,
which is why I am saying it.  Your puzzlement
shows how well you understand.  It is important
to have someone to talk to
even if they can’t hear you.  You can polish a mirror
until you see your face, but it will not
be you, because meaning is created
when we are not looking, while the grass
grows, grows, grows.

That was an ode to Walt Whitman.

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Copyr­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Tobacco, liquor, and women are bad for you,
so I’ve quit smoking.  Someday, liquor too.

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Copyr­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

After Sir Walter Raleigh


Go, poem, since you are free,
and, though you know it’s hopeless,
if you make just one see,
at least there’ll be one dope less
   to chant the hymns that praise
   the liars of our days.

Tell friendship it’s just greed
to take without returning,
tell love it’s only need
to quench a ****** burning,
   and if they doubt your word,
   then flip them both The Bird.

Tell managers they care
for nothing but their perks;
tell judges they’re unfair;
tell lawyers that they’re jerks:
   when they shall have demurred,
   dismiss them with The Bird.

Tell churches that they sing
of god and worship money;
their purpose is to sting
their flocks and keep the honey:
   so let them be assured
   they won’t escape The Bird.

Tell statesmen they commit
mass ****** for their masters,
and never need admit
blame for their disasters:
   on them is well conferred
   The Order of The Bird.

Tell liberals they’re moony;
conservatives, they’re tools;
call flaming leftists loony,
and right wing ranters, fools:
   if they cry, “No we’re not!”,
   The Bird must be their lot.

Say politicians lie
and lie and lie and lie
and lie and lie and lie
and lie and lie and lie.
   They don’t like what they’ve heard?
   Perhaps they’ll like The Bird.

Tell radical professors
rebellion’s easy, when you’re
among the proud possessors
of insulating tenure.
   If they squeal, “That’s absurd!”,
   assign their grade:  The Bird.

Tell poets they’re careerist
illiterate poseurs;
tell critics they’re the merest
flotsam on auteurs,
   and if they scowl and scoff,
   then they must be flipped off.

Tell generals they delight
to climb their hierarchy
enslaving youth who fight
to keep their owners free:
   if generals howl and hoot,
   present The Bird Salute.

Say toadying little ferrets
are guaranteed a cheer,
while unconnected merit’s
rewarded with a sneer:
   if they disparage you,
   you know what you must do.

Call honor egotism’s
euphemistic name;
point out that patriotism’s
an antidote to shame,
   and if they are outraged,
   release The Bird uncaged.


Then vanish, poem, at last,
when you have done your duty,
into the spirit’s vast
retreat of truth and beauty,
   and leave this world we see
   to King Hypocrisy.




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Cop­yr­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com